Fic: Those who do not grow old.
Title: Those who do not grow old.
Characters: OC, Jack, Ianto.
Rating: G
Summary: Jack attends the remembrance service every year.
A/N I wrote this with the intention of posting it on Remembrance Sunday last year, but for some reason didn’t. Given the events of Children of Earth this seems even more sad than when I first wrote it.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years contemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
Laurence Binyon.
It’s not a bad morning, a bit cold and a little misty here by the war memorial in Cathays Park, but otherwise it’s dry. A fact of which I’m glad as I lean my walking stick and make my way carefully across the fallen leaves to the rows of chairs.
Once I used to stand through the whole service, first as a young man in uniform, and later as a family man, my wife at my side.
I’m alone this year though. Yet I can’t complain, least of all today, I’ve had a good eighty three years really. I was one of the lucky ones, I came home, got married and saw my children grow and have families of their own.
As the service draws to close I see him. He’s stood where I’ve always seen him, under the shadow of an old yew tree, his RAF greatcoat flapping about him in the breeze.
I never used to believe in ghosts or spirits or anything crazy like that, and I’m not sure even now that I really do. Yet what I do know is that he’s not aged a day or changed his appearance over any of the sixty-two Remembrance Sunday services that I’ve seen him at. Sixty-two years and he’s still young, while we’ve all grown old. Yet I can’t feel any jealously for his youth, just a sadness that he’s been left behind.
He never approaches any of us, and we don’t approach him. I’m not even sure that any of them but me see him. Not that I’ve asked, and at my age if you go round saying you’re seeing people and talking about ghosts and nonsense like that you’re likely to get some well meaning relative looking up the nearest old folks home for you.
This year he looks almost grey with weariness. And I swear I can see the weak sunlight reflect off tears as he turns his head to look at a young mother, her children beside her, as they lay a wreath for a father and husband taken too soon.
Damn but that always makes me choke up as well.
When I look back there’s a young man at his side, but then they all seem so young to me these days, his dark suit as sombre as his expression. I can’t hear what he’s saying, and perhaps it is not something meant for mortal ears, but whatever it is I can see faint smile on his face. He nods and places a hand on the young man’s shoulder.
I look away as the bugle start to play the last post, knowing that he’ll be gone by the time it is over. Next year, I tell myself, God willing, I’ll be here again. Next year I’ll speak to him.
Characters: OC, Jack, Ianto.
Rating: G
Summary: Jack attends the remembrance service every year.
A/N I wrote this with the intention of posting it on Remembrance Sunday last year, but for some reason didn’t. Given the events of Children of Earth this seems even more sad than when I first wrote it.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years contemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
Laurence Binyon.
It’s not a bad morning, a bit cold and a little misty here by the war memorial in Cathays Park, but otherwise it’s dry. A fact of which I’m glad as I lean my walking stick and make my way carefully across the fallen leaves to the rows of chairs.
Once I used to stand through the whole service, first as a young man in uniform, and later as a family man, my wife at my side.
I’m alone this year though. Yet I can’t complain, least of all today, I’ve had a good eighty three years really. I was one of the lucky ones, I came home, got married and saw my children grow and have families of their own.
As the service draws to close I see him. He’s stood where I’ve always seen him, under the shadow of an old yew tree, his RAF greatcoat flapping about him in the breeze.
I never used to believe in ghosts or spirits or anything crazy like that, and I’m not sure even now that I really do. Yet what I do know is that he’s not aged a day or changed his appearance over any of the sixty-two Remembrance Sunday services that I’ve seen him at. Sixty-two years and he’s still young, while we’ve all grown old. Yet I can’t feel any jealously for his youth, just a sadness that he’s been left behind.
He never approaches any of us, and we don’t approach him. I’m not even sure that any of them but me see him. Not that I’ve asked, and at my age if you go round saying you’re seeing people and talking about ghosts and nonsense like that you’re likely to get some well meaning relative looking up the nearest old folks home for you.
This year he looks almost grey with weariness. And I swear I can see the weak sunlight reflect off tears as he turns his head to look at a young mother, her children beside her, as they lay a wreath for a father and husband taken too soon.
Damn but that always makes me choke up as well.
When I look back there’s a young man at his side, but then they all seem so young to me these days, his dark suit as sombre as his expression. I can’t hear what he’s saying, and perhaps it is not something meant for mortal ears, but whatever it is I can see faint smile on his face. He nods and places a hand on the young man’s shoulder.
I look away as the bugle start to play the last post, knowing that he’ll be gone by the time it is over. Next year, I tell myself, God willing, I’ll be here again. Next year I’ll speak to him.